


The End of the World As We Know It

by little_abyss



Series: The Wastelands [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Long-Distance Relationship, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 08:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Taliesin Hawke is dead. Dorian attends his funeral, and finally asks Bull an important question.





	The End of the World As We Know It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ponticle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/gifts).



_ Taliesin Hawke _

_ 9:06 Dgn — 9:51 Dgn _

 

Dorian takes a sharp breath, his thumb pausing over the screen. He hardly sees the Twitter post above that link, those two words, that span of time which could only mean one thing. Seemingly without his permission, his thumb taps the icon, and the browser on his phone opens — the white loading screen seems to take an age to resolve.

 

But there it is. A photograph of Taliesin’s face, that inimitable grin, both mocking and desperate, underneath the Philliam.com header image.  _ Obituary _ , that word, it appears above Tal’s name —  _ Tal, _ Dorian thinks,  _ Not Taliesin. Maker, he always  _ hated _ being called that _ — and doesn’t it feel strange? To know that his shock, his grief, on one level, will be felt by many… and yet, will only really be shared by a handful of people.

 

He sets his jaw. Dorian scans the obituary text, phrases jumping out at him as he goes:  _ well-known antagonist, supporter of mage rights, champion of independent music, friend, confidante, lover.  _ He reaches the end of the article, and sighs as he reads,  _ Hawke is survived by his partners, and his many friends. Though his final year was one of suffering, we’ll remember him for the way he made us feel — for the good times, and the bad, and all the adventures in-between. And, Tal, if you ever read this, you still owe me seven sovereigns from that time in Antiva. Well, shit. I guess we could call it even, given the circumstances. _

 

Dorian frowns, then scrolls rapidly back up to the top of the page, searching for an author name, then smiles when he finds it.  _ Tethras _ , he thinks, and shakes his head. Quickly, he changes the app and sends a message to his assistant, forwarding him several links. Then he rubs his eyes and swings his legs out of bed, thumbing over to the messages tab and bringing up the last contact.

 

06:20am Dorian: Did you read it? Do you know about Tal?

06:20am Bull: yeah how’d you find out

06:21am Dorian: Philliam of course. Are you going?

06:21am Bull: 2 wht

06:21am Dorian: The funeral! Or memorial, or whatever they’re having for him! 

06:25am Bull: cn i call u

 

Dorian doesn’t wait. He taps the phone several times, and then the dial tone starts. He puts it on speakerphone and then places the phone on the bathroom counter, studying his face in the mirror. 

Bull picks up on the second ring. “Kadan, y’alright?”

Dorian sighs in mock annoyance, though he feels concern blossom in the pit of his stomach. “Of course. But you obviously have an opinion you’d like to share with me.”

“Yeah,” Bull says slowly. There’s a pause on the line and Dorian inspects a new wrinkle, then grimaces.

“Out with it, then,” he purrs, and hears the huff of Bull’s laughter.

“‘Kay,” he says softly. “You think this is something that people are gonna… like…just… be there for?”

Dorian frowns and looks at the phone. “Explain,” he demands.

“Well… I mean, it’s not something you just rock up to, is it?”

“This isn’t the Qun, Amatus,” Dorian says, “We respect the individual around these parts.”

“That’s kind of what I mean,” Bull says. “How’s Anders gonna feel about you showing up?” A deliberate pause, then, “And Fenris?”

Dorian makes a thoughtful noise. “Fair,” he says eventually. “But…” He sighs. “It isn’t the same as it was. I  _ know _ Anders now. And... I have some idea of what this past year has been like for him, and for Fenris. I want to be there, to help if I can, and to show them my support if I can’t. And anyway, I’ve already got Cyprian booking flights and onto Apostasy.” 

Bull sighs audibly, then chuckles. “Kadan,” he says, then pauses. “You’re so beautiful, you know that, right?”

“I know,” Dorian preens. Bull laughs again.

“I mean inside,” he says. There’s a pause, then Bull yawns. “Lemme know when it is, okay? I’ll come with you if I can.”

 

“But you’re touring soon, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Bull says slowly, “If I can, Kadan. I wanna be there with you.”

“Alright,” Dorian says, then sighs. “I just… I can’t believe he’s gone. It makes me feel old.”

Bull snorts. “Yeah,” he says musingly, “I get you. Still… Tal never looked after himself.”

“I know,” Dorian sighs again. “Alright, Amatus, I’ll be in touch.”

“‘Kay,” Bull says, then yawns again. “Love you.”

“I love you too,” Dorian says, “We’ll talk soon.”

“‘Kay,” Bull repeats. Dorian chuckles, tells him goodbye and ends the call.

 

The funeral, according to the information Cyprian has gathered in the few hours since he received Dorian’s messages, is at the end of the week. “I can get you on a flight down to Kirkwall the day before,” he tells Dorian, then looks at him sternly over the rim of his fashionable glasses, “That’s the soonest we can do without throwing your schedule out entirely. You have legal looking over contracts for Nox Eterna, they’re coming in to sign them on…”

“Friday, yes, I know…”

“And then you’ll also know that Monday is the day that Mae’s scheduled you for that sit down with Imperium…”

“Oh  _ fasta vass _ ,” Dorian swears under his breath. He halts, one hand on the door of his office. “Cancel it.”

“I  _ can’t _ ,” Cyprian tells him firmly. Dorian looks at him, slightly agape at the rebuff, then clenches his jaw briefly.

“Well if you  _ won’t _ ,” he hisses, “Then perhaps it is time to find a new place of employment?”

 

Cyprian raises his eyebrows slightly, staring at Dorian, who stares right back. The detente goes on for a moment more, then Dorian sighs. “I apologise,” he says quietly, “If you can move Nox Eterna, I would appreciate it. Book a flight for Friday, return Sunday.”

Cyprian nods, his expression a little bitter, then looks away. “Fine,” he says, then brings the tablet he carries closer to his chest. “I didn’t realise he meant so much to you.”

Dorian smiles slightly. “Well,” he says, and then is lost for words. Silence for a moment, then he waves Cyprian away. “Fine,” he echoes, and turns slightly. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

 

-|||-

 

The flight is delayed twice, but Dorian makes it into Kirkwall in the late afternoon, just as the sun is setting. The light glints off the water of the Bay of Chains; the towers of the central city throw back the orange glow with an eerie brilliance. After customs and immigration, he walks out of the terminal and into the damp heat of Kirkwall itself.  _ Just like home _ , he thinks sadly, and rolls his suitcase to the nearest available cab on the rank.

 

The next day is hot and humid, glorious summer weather. Kirkwall looks all shining perfection through the polarized glass of his hotel suite, far, far above the city. Dorian frowns, concentrating as he ties the knot in his black tie, then smiles at his reflection as he remembers Cullen’s voice from years ago:  _ You don’t think it’s too..? _

It’s been years since he’s seen Cullen. Oh, certainly, they’d spoken a few times, and though the news had dried up in recent years, for a while one could hardly pick up the southern music press without reading about him. However, gradually, they’d drifted apart. Kirkwall seems as if it is the repository for so many bad memories for Cullen, it would be unlikely to see him at the funeral… wouldn’t it?  _ And then all the bad blood with Fader… _ Dorian reminds himself, and sighs, his smile withering. Yes, it would be unlikely to see Cullen at the funeral… but these events do have a strange way of bringing long-forgotten faces out into the light once more. A twist of his lips which Dorian doesn’t feel himself doing, and then he lifts his phone from the edge of the bathroom cabinet.  _ Amatus, _ he types,  _ how do I look? _

 

He holds the phone out, arching his neck slightly, then looks into the bathroom mirror. Grey eyes stare back out at him, and Dorian takes the selfie. Then, as he turns the phone back around, he regrets the impetus — it feels cheap to even care about something like this in the face of the event which he’s about to attend. Quickly, he deletes both the text and the picture and puts his phone down again. It’s time to be moving anyway.

 

-|||-

 

The grass is bone-dry, brittle under his polished shoes. Dorian strides purposefully toward the small group he can see on the cemetery lawn — already there are faces that he recognises. A small woman bounces on the balls of her feet, her dark green dress swaying around her legs, and she looks over her shoulder in his direction. He can see her expression change; she elbows the woman next to her, then turns, marching quickly toward him, her arms outstretched. “Dorian!” she calls, her voice wobbling. Heads turn toward him, he can see it happen from the periphery of his vision, and then she’s there — Merrill, after all these years. He exhales, wrapping his arms around her, and says, “Hello, darling. How are you?”

“Oooh,” Merrill half-moans, then laughs shakily and sniffs. “Not very good. I miss him, we knew it was coming, but I miss him. And I feel so bad for Anders and Fen! Oh Dorian… it’s…” She takes a deep breath, holds it as she makes a face, her eyes welling with fresh tears. 

“Well,” Dorian says gently, “Of course. Of course you do. Merrill, the years haven’t changed you a bit.”

She laughs a little at that, and pulls away from his body. “They’ve changed us all though,” she tells him softly, and he sees it then — his memory had shaped her into what he remembers, but now it’s there, the crows feet just beginning in the corners of her eyes, the softness of her upper arms. She grins at him in the same old way that he remembers — the same way that he saw first on tour posters and in promotional photographs. Dorian swallows and squeezes her to him gently before letting her go. Merrill smiles again, more sadly than before, then tells him, “Come on. Come and see the others.”

 

It’s a quiet group, no more than thirty people standing in the blazing sun. Merrill walks him over to a small knot — a woman in a short black dress, her red high heels glistening against the dead-brown of the grass, an elf with short greying hair and a pinstriped suit, and… “Cassandra?” Dorian asks, smiling incredulously, and Cassandra turns, glaring at him before she realises who he is. 

Her smile is radiant. “Dorian? Maker… I can’t believe… how did you know?” she asks, sounding incredulous.

“Well, I’m not sure that you’re aware, but there’s a rather recent invention which people call social media.” Dorian smirks as Cassandra rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, yes,” she tells him, and shakes her head. “Same old Dorian.”

“And my, my, hasn’t he aged well?” Isabela smirks, holding her arms out to him. She takes both his hands and holds them away from his body, giving him a playful up-and-down look. “Not an ounce of middle aged spread. Tevinter suits you, kiddo.”

Dorian laughs quietly. “I should hope so. Though I rather think it’s less Tevinter and more success.”

“Yeah, we heard about that…”

“Mmm,” Dorian smiles, “It's funny, isn’t it? We never stopped moving in the same circles… I heard about Zevran too.” He swallows and drops his eyes for a moment, then tells her sincerely, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Isabela nods, her lips twisting into a small smile. “That man was the Maker-damned best bass player I ever knew.” She pauses, then sighs. “It sucks that he went the way he did… but then…” For a moment she looks almost angry, then she shrugs. “Then the same thing happened to Hawke. We all smoked and drank and fucked and took drugs… and now it’s catching up to us. But I guess it was a different time.”

 

Merrill murmurs agreement. Then she looks at Cassandra and asks quietly, “Have you seen Fen today, Cassie?”

Cassandra lowers her chin and clenches her jaw. “Yes,” she says curtly, then folds her arms. After a brief silence, she says, “He’s in the studio. I do not know if he will come.”

 

Dorian makes a choked noise; he can feel his face contort. Cassandra glances at him and her expression shifts to something like exasperated sympathy. “Dorian, he’s… he’s hurting, very badly. This past year… at least, for Anders… at least Anders could do something, he could take some of Hawke’s pain away. But… for Fenris…” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “Can you imagine how that might feel? To want to take someone’s burden, but be powerless to?”

The elf in the pinstriped suit nods, then shakes her head and looks away. She looks vaguely familiar to Dorian, but not enough that he remembers a name, so he puts his hand out. “I apologise — I’m Dorian Pavus. I’m with Lucerni Music.” He chuckles a little and glances at Cassandra, “Once with Thrown from the Breach, and Tempus.”

The elf looks at him and reaches for his hand. “Shianni,” she tells him, sounding cross. “I was Fader’s road boss for about ten years.”

“Yeah,” Isabela laughs, “Hey, Merrill. Do you remember that time in Cumberland with that fucking fly? That big one, that got in the room?”

 

Merrill laughs suddenly, “Oh! Yes! And he woke us all up — Dorian, oh Creators, this was back in the day when we were having to share a suite, we were so poor — he woke us all up…”

“He was such an idiot… and he’d been out until later than me, even, probably getting stoned…”

“And he started choking, and poor Anders…”

“Thrashing around, holding his neck…”

“Poor Anders was all  _ What is it, what is it _ , and Hawke’s trying to tell him he’s got a fly bloody jammed in his throat and like… and like not die…”

“But he’s choking, and waving his arms around…”

Cassandra laughs quietly, then turns. Briefly, she watches the crowd, then shushes them, before whispering, “It’s time.”

 

Isabela and Merrill become still and quiet, and Shianni bites her lip. Silently, they move forward, clustering together with the rest of the group, walking together slowly, reluctantly, toward the slew of flowers grouped together around a low dias. There’s a movement near the front and a dwarf mounts the dias. He turns away from the crowd gathering, and Dorian sees him wipe his eyes. Then Varric turns back to them all and grins.

“Alright, alright, siddown,” he tells them gruffly, flapping his hands. 

“Use the mic, you twit,” a half-remembered voice yells, and Varric flips whoever it is the bird and laughs briefly. There’s a low mutter of laughter at that, and Dorian smiles.

“Nah,” Varric says, “You lot get sick enough of hearing my voice anyway.” He takes a deep breath, sighs it out and smiles grimly. 

 

“Where do I start? You know why we’re here. Most of us have known this was coming for a while now. Tal… he was a lot of things, and he lived a full life. There could never have been enough time for him — he felt everything, embraced every experience, and knew everyone worth knowing.” Varric smirks and blows on his fingernails, pretending to shine them against his shirt. The crowd laughs a little, and Dorian can hear someone blow their nose. Varric sighs, licks his lip and folds his hands together. “I’m not gonna lie to you, he could be an arsehole too. Most of you already knew that — but you’re still here, you kept with him… just like he kept with all of us.” Varric shakes his head and swallows hard. “Look,” he says, and clears his throat. Dorian catches his breath; he can see that it’s becoming difficult for Varric to speak. “Look,” Varric repeats, “I ain’t here to talk your ears off. But before we start drinking, if anyone wants to say a few words, come on up. Tal loved hearing stories, that I can attest to — and he always loved being the centre of attention.” More chuckling from the crowd, and Varric smiles. “Come on then, you lot. Don’t be shy.”

 

There’s another low mutter of laughter, and Varric jumps off the little platform and returns to a seat in the front. The dias stands empty for a moment, then Dorian sees someone rise in his peripheral vision. He turns, looking at the person, and smiles when he recognises Carver Hawke, approaching the dias with the same sense of determination which seems to have characterised all his actions through his life.

He looks older — but then, Dorian supposes, everyone does. His hair is short, and he’s thicker around the waist; there’s a deep frown-line between his eyes.  _ Clearly not moisturising _ , some part of Dorian’s mind muses, and he almost laughs at the idiocy of the thought. 

Carver takes a deep breath, shifts uncomfortably, and scowls at the crowd, then looks at the ground. “He was my brother,” he says softly, so softly that Dorian has to strain to hear him. There’s a murmur and another sniff, and Varric gets up, takes the mic from the podium and tries to give it to Carver. Carver shakes his head, and Dorian hears Varric say, “They can’t hear you, buddy.”

“Fuck it,” Carver says, and the sound catches in the microphone. A few people laugh, and Carver shakes his head again, then sighs. “He was my brother,” he repeats into the microphone, and looks up at the crowd again. His eyes are red, Dorian sees, and he frowns in sympathy. “But he was a lot more than that. Tal… man, he could be a pain. He was a contradiction, I guess… and we didn’t always get on… but we protected each other as much as we could. I got so much from him; I knew he always supported me. And… I didn’t always understand him or what he did, but I tried to support him as much as I could.” 

There’s a murmur at the front, and someone gives a small moaning sound. Carver’s eyes dart to the left and he smiles sadly. “He loved us,” he says, as if he is particularly speaking to someone. “But no-one more than  _ his darling boys _ . I’ve… I’ve never known anyone who had more love in them than him. And it’s not easy to handle that shit — sometimes I think that love causes as many problems as it solves — but Tal… with Anders and Fenris… he was home. He had so much love.” Carver sniffs and blinks, then frowns furiously, and thrusts the microphone away from himself. He looks as if he’ll just drop it on the ground for a moment, but then Varric is there, taking it from him, patting him on the arm as he marches away, head bowed, hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

 

A man rises as he walks past, holding his arms out to Carver. Carver looks at him, and his expression relaxes — he goes to the man and is embraced by him. He’s tall, Dorian sees, almost as tall as… then he inhales, shocked, as he realises who it is. Anders. His white shirt hangs off him badly; always on the thin side, Anders now looks almost troubling. But Carver displays no reticence, just allows himself to be embraced by Anders, embraces him in turn. They stand together for a moment, then Carver extricates himself and smiles sadly. He flaps a hand at something Anders says to him and turns, returning to his seat. Anders watches him for a moment, then sits as well.

There’s more movement now, coming from the opposite side of Dorian. A susurrus of whispers, and Dorian sees a dark-haired man approach the dias, take up the microphone. Then he turns, and once more, Dorian catches his breath in surprise.

 

Lee Samson clears his throat before raising the microphone to his mouth. “I didn’ know Hawke very well,” he begins, his voice rough and quiet. “But we had more in common than you’d think.” He snorts and rolls his eyes, “And not just the stuff you read in Philliam, either.”

There’s small laughter at that, and Samson sighs. “I didn’t… I didn’t really prepare somethin’. I just… wanted to say… A lot of the time, it’s easier to… easier to look at difference than it is to look for things in common. I wish I’d gotten done with that shit sooner than I did. By the time I got to know Hawke, it was already too late… but… after…” Samson seems to grind his teeth and takes a shuddering breath, then drops the hand with the mic in it and scrubs at his eyes with the other. There’s a woman approaching — Dorian sees it is Cassandra. She looks fierce; but she takes Samson gently enough by the shoulders and smiles at him, muttering something inaudibly. Samson nods, sniffs, and together they turn, Cassandra’s arm around his shoulders, her expression stoic. Samson clears his throat. “After… well,” he resumes, speaking more slowly now, his eyes downcast, “After I tried to come off it… I mean, I knew I needed help. And when… when I reached out to Hawke… ah, fuck it.” 

_ When did he do that?  _ Dorian thinks, frowning in confusion. He resists the urge to whip out his phone, to leap onto the Internet and find out what Samson might be talking about, but only barely. 

Samson takes a deep breath, scowls and shakes his head. “He was a fucking good bloke. We had our differences, and he didn’t forgive easily… but he  _ did _ forgive. He had a good heart. I’ll miss him, and I’ll never forget what he did for me.” He sniffs again, and gives Cassandra the microphone, taking one long step off the dias and stalking back to his seat, one hand over his eyes. Cassandra watches him for a moment, then smiles ruefully. “Since I am here,” she says slowly into the microphone, “I will just share a story. We had been billed to play at CrowFest — Seek Truth were second on the bill, this was 9:31…” A ripple of laughter, and Anders’ voice says, “Oh, not this story…”

Cassandra laughs. “Yes, this story,” she tells Anders, then looks out at the crowd again. “It was not common knowledge at the time, but we were about to break up. Some of you knew my former bandmate, Lucius…”

“That cunt,” someone mutters, and people laugh.

“...and his… how should I put this… ego?” Again, more laughter, and Cassandra smirks. “In particular, Lucius was insane about his hair. In those days, he would bleach it a kind of white blond colour… but Hawke soon put a stop to that. We were in the same hotel as Fader; while Isabela kept Lucius busy in the bar, Hawke somehow got into Lucius’ room…”

“He convinced the housekeeper!” Isabela yells from next to Dorian, sounding delighted, “He convinced her he knew you lot!”

Cassandra laughs. “Well, he got into his room, and switched the shampoo and conditioner… and the next day — the day we were playing, incidentally — the first we knew about it was this  _ howl _ of rage.” Cassandra chuckles, shifting the microphone in her grip as she waits for the laughter to subside. “I have never heard such a sound… we rushed into his suite and he was standing there, dripping wet, his hair the most violent shade of green. Our rep went into overdrive, we almost missed our slot because Lucius flatly refused to go on stage like that…” She laughs again, then looks at the ground, smiling sadly. “Hawke always had terrible timing, and he was merciless with those he thought could use a blow to their pride. Professionally, I have known better guitarists…” Laughter again, and Cassandra raises her eyes, smiling, “But I have never known the owner of a label to care more about the bands on their roster. That care characterised Hawke — Tal — and all that he did. From what I observed, and my dealings with him, he cared about others far more than about himself. We have lost much with him, but I feel that his influence in music will go on.”

“Hear, hear!” Varric shouts, and a few people clap. Cassandra puts the microphone into its stand again and leaves the dias. And that’s when it hits Dorian, quite suddenly — Taliesin Hawke is dead. 

 

He can feel the tears sting his sinuses, and he scowls. The little dias remains empty for a while as Dorian wrestles with himself, and then, almost against his instincts, Dorian rises.  _ What are you doing _ ? a part of him asks, but he’s already reached the end of the row, already striding up to the front. He can feel people’s eyes on him. Dorian sniffs, steps up on the dias, then takes the microphone and turns.

The faces before him swim in his vision, and he feels sweat prickle at his temples, at the back of his neck under his collar. But he smiles that winning smile —  _ punk rock peacock _ , Bull had called him, once upon a time — and raises the mic to his lips. A beat of silence, then Dorian says, “The first time I saw them, it was love.”

Another moment as Dorian pauses to gather his thoughts. “It was summer in Tevinter; the summer I turned eighteen. My friend had given me a pile of bootlegged tapes from a variety of southern bands — you see how long ago this was, since we’re still talking about tapes…” Laughter then, and Dorian smiles. “And one of those tapes was Fader’s album  _ Queen of Cats _ .”

He glances at Anders, who smiles gently at him. “That was it,” Dorian tells him, then lifts his eyes to look around the crowd. “I adored Fader, or the Fader I heard on that scratchy bootleg. But later that summer, when I found out that Fader would be touring their second album to Tevinter, I knew I had to see them. We — my friend Felix and I — we took a ten hour bus trip from Qarinus to Minrathous for that show. It was at the Colosseum, a venue which several years ago was demolished to make way for apartment blocks. But that night… that night, when I watched Hawke, and Anders, and Merrill and Isabela onstage, when I saw what they had together, how much love there was in their music, I knew… I knew where I wanted to be. I saw my hopes laid bare, and I saw someone — several someones, in fact — who told me that my hopes could become manifest, that I had it in my power to make them real.”

 

Dorian swallows, blinking away tears. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that; none of you even knew who I was,” he smiles, glancing at Anders, then finding Isabela and Merrill in the crowd. “But seeing the love there, between each of the musician’s onstage, the regard that they had for each other…” Dorian pauses, shakes his head, then shrugs. He looks down at his feet for a moment, then back up at the crowd. “Tal’s life was made of love. It was a fierce love, perhaps, but there was never uncertainty in it. His music has informed my whole life, and now that I am officially old…”

Laughter at that, too, and Dorian grins, then wipes his eyes quickly, “Yes, now that I am old, I still aspire to hold that much love in my heart. Tal was much more than what he seemed, and I count myself extremely lucky to have known someone such as him.” He takes a deep breath, smiles again and sniffs, before putting the microphone back into its stand and stepping off the dias. 

 

It’s rather a blur, after that. Several more people speak, then Varric takes the microphone again, and suddenly everyone is standing, moving away. Dorian finds himself swept along in the crowd for a while, nodding and smiling at people who notice his presence, but largely lost to his own recollections. He wishes Bull were here, but knows that it is a logistic impossibility, knows that Bull wishes he were as well. Someone moves close to him, catches his elbow, and Dorian turns, looking up into Anders’ face. “Hey,” Anders smiles at him; he looks utterly exhausted. “Thank you. For being here, and for your words. Are you coming back?”

For a moment, Dorian misunderstands the words, and he opens his mouth to tell Anders he’s really only in Kirkwall overnight, doesn’t know when he’ll be back, or if he will be. But then he realises that Anders is talking about a wake, and he frowns slightly. Anders nods, still smiling, and drops his gaze. “We’d like to see you, if you can. But either way — we… I really appreciate you being here, Dorian. It’s good to see you.”

 

Dorian nods. Briefly, he is at a loss for words, and the silence hangs awkwardly between himself and Anders. Then Dorian smiles, and tells Anders, “Of course. Of course I can. Does… where will it be?”

“At the house,” Anders tells him. His smile is a little strained now, and he glances at Dorian quickly, then away again before stating, “I gotta go. Izzy will drive you, if you want.”

Dorian nods again, but Anders is turning on his heel, striding away. As he crosses the dry grass, Dorian watches him as he nods curtly to people who speak to him, but avoids those who try to pull him into an embrace or shake his hand. Eventually, he reaches Carver — they exchange a few words, Carver nods, and they walk together toward the parking lot. There’s something missing here, Dorian feels it, but he cannot put his finger on what it might be. So he sighs, surveys the remaining people and, spotting Isabela, hurries after her to see whether she will give him a ride.

 

-|||-

 

The apartment is crowded, but the noise is subdued. Dorian smiles at someone he half-recognises, not slowing his pace as he walks through to the kitchen. It’s a nice place, but small, much smaller than Dorian had been expecting. There are reminders of Hawke everywhere Dorian looks — a battered Rickenbacker hung as if it is high art; a hole in the wall leading up to the stairs framed with a strange caption; a record collection which takes up most of one wall. An elderly mabari sleeps in one corner, apparently oblivious to it all. 

There are more people in here, though the mood seems more lively. “...Never stopped dancing,” a young man says, and pushes his straw-blond hair out of his eyes. Dorian smiles as he recognises him — Cole. As he thinks the name, the young man catches his eye and smiles back. “You came,” he says, “But he couldn’t.”

“Hello, Cole,” Dorian laughs. “Nice to see you haven’t entirely lost the mystical air. You’re right — Bull’s on tour.”

Cole nods and cocks his head. “You have to get back,” he says, “And you’re wondering why you came.”

Dorian shakes his head, frowning, already opening his mouth to refute the claim, but then pauses to examine his feelings and finds that Cole is right. He  _ is _ wondering why he came. Anders has disappeared, and everyone else here knew Hawke much better than Dorian does. Did. He shifts uncomfortably as even in thought he corrects the tense of the statement. “Yes, well,” he says in answer to Cole’s statement, “Perhaps there’s a little truth to that, but…” 

Cole smiles ruefully and touches Dorian’s elbow. “It’s alright. You don’t have to explain. How is Nox Eterna’s new album coming? I like them. I’d like to work with them, one day.”

“Oh… oh? I didn’t know you’d heard of them.”

Cole nods, then his eyes shift to Dorian’s left and he smiles. “Yes. I like them a lot. I have to go.”

And with that, he turns quite abruptly and walks away. Dorian makes a confused face, watching him, then sighs in annoyance and shifts. He needs the bathroom, but it’s so crowded in here… and there’s still that feeling of something missing, something… not quite right.  _ It’s a funeral thing _ , Dorian tells himself, and sighs, watching Sera wave her arms over her head in the retelling of some tale as Carver and Merrill listen, expressions of bemused interest on their faces. He looks around for somewhere to leave his wineglass, resolving to find a bathroom then make his excuses and leave. Spotting a nearby side table, he places it with several others, then makes his way upstairs.

 

It’s much quieter up here. Carefully, Dorian tries the first door he comes to at the top of the stairs; a laundry alcove. As he approaches the next door, he hesitates; the sound of voices come from the other side. Not wanting to pry, but curious, he listens, trying to identify who it is — after a moment, he clearly hears Anders say, “...not even about that. I just… missed you, that’s all. I could have used the support.”

“And what use would I have been to you?” sobs a second voice. Dorian inhales sharply; Fenris. But Fenris sounding utterly broken, destitute, so unlike anything Dorian could have pictured. “What use was I to him? I did not deserve to be there, not when you were the one that eased his pain, you were the one…”

“It doesn’t mean that I could ease my own! Maker’s Arse, Fenris…” There’s a pause, then Anders resumes, in a much quieter tone, “I’m hurting too. Fen, please… just… I don’t want these people here any more than you do, I just want you. You and me. We need to look after each other, that’s all I want. I…”

Dorian steps back from the door, his mind reeling, shoulders tense. Quickly, as quietly as he can, he goes to the third door, the last one remaining to him, and opens it — thank the Maker, a bathroom. He uses it, washes up and closes the door as quietly as he can behind himself, planning to make his excuses as soon as he can and leave. But before he can quite make the distance down the dim corridor, the door in the middle opens, and Anders steps through.

 

He is holding one hand to his face. As Dorian watches, his stomach tensed, Anders rubs his eyes and sighs, dropping his hand. Words stop in Dorian’s throat — quite suddenly, he wishes he were invisible. But it is too late; Anders starts, obviously surprised, and tries to smile. It’s a weak effort, and he gives it up quickly, and sighs again. “Dorian,” he murmurs, “I…”

Anders doesn’t finish, but lets the word hang in the air. Dorian looks at him, his brow creasing, then mutters, “I couldn’t help but hear…” He gestures at the door and shrugs. “Anders? What do you need?”

For a while, Anders only stands in the corridor, silent. It feels as if suggestions crowd into Dorian’s mind — he needs food, he needs rest, Dorian wants to take charge of the situation, to help him in any way that he can — but he resists speaking any of them. Finally, Anders sighs again. “Honestly? I need… I just…” He takes a deep breath and looks at Dorian, then asks, “Will you get these people out of our house? We need to be together for a while. We’re hurting.”

Dorian nods. “Of course. Stay here. I’ll knock when everyone is gone.”

Anders laughs a little, sounding miserable. “Alright,” he says softly, and turns, his hand on the doorknob. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Dorian says, and smiles. But Anders isn’t looking at him — he is crossing the threshold, back into the room he has just left. He closes the door behind himself and Dorian hears the low murmur of voices once more. Briefly, strangely, he misses Bull, and then pushes the thought aside. Now is not the time. He has things to do.

 

-|||-

 

It takes a long time, but with Isabela’s help, Dorian manages to clear the house. The only person that gives him trouble is Carver, but when Dorian explains it, he grimaces in a strange way and glances up the stairs. “Yeah,” he mutters, then sighs. “Alright. Tell Anders and Fen I’ll be over tomorrow, if they’re around.”

“Certainly,” Dorian says, and smiles tensely, waiting. Carver narrows his eyes for a moment, then nods. “You’re alright, Pavus,” he says, and turns, stalking toward the door. 

 

Dorian breathes a sigh of relief. He turns, looking into the house toward Isabela, who has her handbag strap slung over her shoulder. All of a sudden, she looks old to him, and he frowns slightly, his lips parting, unsure of what to say. But she smiles at him and shrugs, before stating, “I’m off. Tell Fen I’ll be around whenever he needs me.”

“Not Anders?” Dorian asks, instantly regretting it. Isabela smirks coldly, then shifts her posture a little.

“If you want,” she says blithely, then huffs out an annoyed breath. “See you, Dorian. It was nice, I guess.”

Dorian moves aside, confused, his manners working reflexively to make him open the door for Isabela, who ignores him entirely as she passes.  _ Maybe it’s grief? _ he wonders, trying to curtail the outrage he feels at her flippancy, then sighs as he closes the door gently behind her. 

 

Quietly, he walks up the stairs once more, the silence of the house oppressive-feeling. Dorian raises his fist and knocks gently on the door, then says into the crack, “Everyone’s gone. I…”

The door opens, and Anders stands there, his eyes red and tired, an old sweatshirt on instead of his white shirt. “Thanks,” he murmurs. There is a cross-sounding sigh from behind him, and Anders shifts, revealing Fenris, who looks pale and exhausted. “Yes,” he mutters, voice wobbly. He swallows, clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. “Thank you, Dorian.”

Dorian nods. “If there’s nothing else that I can do,” he begins, looking at Anders now — the look on Fenris’ face is too pained to want to look at for long — “Anything at all, I can… everything is in the trash, I’ll take it with me when I go if you tell me where…”

“It’s fine,” Anders smiles. “Having something to do is actually good right now. But thank you.”

“Yes,” Dorian says, “Of course. I… I’ll see myself out.”

“Dorian,” Anders says, but Dorian flaps his hand, already walking down the corridor. He takes the stairs as quickly as he dares, vision already blurring with tears, opening the door to the outer stairs. The sound it makes as it closes sounds final; but it also sounds like a relief.

 

-|||-

 

“Honestly, it was exhausting,” Dorian murmurs into his phone and adjusts it against his ear. He’s back in his hotel room; from the large picture windows in his suite, Dorian is half-watching the sun set over Kirkwall’s skyline. It’s only three PM in Llomyeryn, the first stop of The Chargers’ tour. Bull snorts a laugh and Dorian makes a face. “You could be a  _ little _ sympathetic, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bull says. There’s the sound of someone talking in the background on his end, then the line crackles and Dorian hears the sound of Bull’s muffled voice. “Sorry,” he says. “Just Stitches.”

“Say hello and fuck off from me,” Dorian says blithely, and Bull laughs again. 

There’s silence for a moment, then Dorian shifts on the edge of the bed. “Amatus,” he begins cautiously, “Can I ask you something?”

“‘Course,” Bull says, and Dorian takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

“Do you think… that there’s any chance that… perhaps we might consider… living together? At some stage?”

Bull is silent for a while, long enough that Dorian feels shame uncoil itself in his chest. He’s drawing a breath to bluster that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t really want to, Maker no, when Bull says, “Sure. But there’s logistics to figure. I’m not exactly real welcome in your part of the world, remember?”

“Of course I do,” Dorian says, then bites his lip, trying not to grin. “No, I was thinking Orlais, or perhaps Antiva, at a stretch.”

Bull makes a noise of assent, then Dorian hears him chuckle. “Orlais, huh?” Dorian can hear the smile in his voice, but the next words dash his good feelings: “You worried about us, Kadan? Or is it just funeral stuff?”

 

Dorian sighs, a response in his mouth already; then he thinks about what it is he’s about to say and reconsiders. “I suppose it’s a little of both. Being at the funeral wasn’t so hard… but afterward, I accidentally heard Anders say to Fenris that…”

“Kadan,” Bull says, sounding a little aghast, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

“ _ Accidentally _ , I said. I just… I was trying to go to the bathroom… look, anyway, my point is that…” Dorian takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, feels tears close. “They loved him so much. And although he was sick for a long time, and they knew it was coming, it wasn’t a relief to either of them. It was like…” Dorian grinds his teeth together and says softly, “It was like I feel whenever we have to say goodbye. I hate it, Bull. And I know that I’ve been the one holding you at arms length, and I know that we’ve both had things to do… and I know this is the worst time to make a decision, but, I really feel that we…”

“Yeah,” Bull murmurs. There’s quiet for a moment, then Bull repeats, “Yeah, Kadan. I feel it. Been feeling it for a while, if you want the truth. But I didn’t wanna push, you know?”

Dorian sighs and smiles. “Well that’s a relief,” he says dryly, “You could have just  _ asked _ , you know.”

Bull laughs, a gentle, deep rumble. “I know,” he says. There’s another pause, then Bull says, “It’ll take a while, but we’ll get there. I love the thought of livin’ with you; waking up with you every morning. I love you, Kadan.”

“I love you too,” Dorian says, and stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. “I’d better go,” he says ruefully, “Early flight and all that. Call me when you’re able tomorrow alright?”

“Alright,” Bull agrees. “Take care of yourself, Kadan.”

“You too, Amatus,” Dorian says. They say their goodbyes, and Dorian thumbs the red call end icon. He looks at the phone for some time, smiling slightly, then sighs. Life goes on, it always does, and in the end all one can hope for is a little more love, a little more hope, a little light in all the darkness.


End file.
